


Of Sacred Duties and Damascus Steel

by winethroughwater



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hilda with someone not Zelda but only a little, Light Bondage, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, post part 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-07 15:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: Hilda goes to the one person she knows who has experience with Damascus-steel chains and sex demons for help:  Zelda.





	1. Chapter 1

Zelda had taught her how to kiss.

 

Later Zelda had taught her how to touch herself so she wasn’t simply left more frustrated than when she had started.

 

Lessons in how to touch in return quickly followed—should she ever plan to use that information “like any normal witch would.”

 

Zelda had declared it was her _sacred_ duty as an older sister.  Though, it was one Zelda certainly seemed to enjoy more than teaching her to levitate and even more than killing her to teach her a lesson.

 

Hilda has often wondered if Zelda keeps a list somewhere of all these _duties_ she has invented over the years.

 

Her sister is the only one she can talk to about this, however.  And maybe Zelda can even advise her without mocking her too severely in the process.

 

The bracelet she cast for Cee has been a Satan-send--or Lilith-send?--a Whoever-send. On a daily basis. They share playful little caresses throughout the day and kisses against the counter after hours until she is weak in the knees.

 

Then last night they’d been snogging on a sofa in the back of the shop to the dulcet sounds of _Plan 9 from Outer Space_ when she’d been bold enough to sit herself right across his lap, hiking up her skirt and straddling him.  It wasn’t the most elaborately romantic of settings but the itch that needed to be scratched in that moment didn’t seem to care.

 

He had moaned in a way that made her wiggle.  

 

His hands had gripped her hips.  

 

She had ground down.

 

And _not_ felt what she had expected.  

 

It had been embarrassing for both of them, though perhaps a bit more for him.  

 

It was obviously the bracelet, working a little too well when it came right down to _it_ , she had assured him.

 

All of which brought her to their office door where Zelda was working for the day.

 

She’s seen very little of her sister during the days following the near apocalypse.  After breakfast, which is not as leisurely as it once was, Zelda is run ragged renovating the school to house their small coven, The Church of Lilith.

 

A High Priestess’s work seems to never be done.

 

That title applied to her sister gives her a bit of a shiver down her spine and a tingling somewhere just slightly south of that.  

 

She’d rather not examine the reaction too closely.

 

She worries about Zelda. But worrying about Zelda is almost an autonomic response by now.

 

She’ll feel better, she thinks, when she hears from Ambrose and Prudence that Faustus Blackwood is dead once and for all. Though part of her wants to see it, would like to rip him to pieces herself.  Maybe put a certain appendage through the meat grinder the way poor little Leviathan had been.

 

When she thinks of Zelda all that time . . .

 

She _does_ dwell on that. Not just the dresses and the rest of the Stepford Witch routine, but everything else.

 

What she imagines is horrible.

 

She has a sinking suspicion that the reality was worse—if Zelda’s dreams are any indication.

 

Her sister had even agreed to let one of her familiars weave a dream catcher above her bed.

 

Before that, they had been woken up every night when Zelda invariably cried out. Even when Hilda crawled into bed and spooned around her, Zelda would lay awake for hours.

 

Zelda had thrown herself into her work.  

 

Hilda had been determined before to sort Cee’s curse out on her own, but maybe the distraction really would be good for the both of them.

 

So she knocks and doesn’t wait to be invited in (it is her office too, after all) before she pokes her head through the door.

 

“ _Zelds_?  Busy?”

 

Zelda doesn’t look up from the journal she is furiously scribbling in.

 

“Of course I’m busy, sister.”

 

“Too busy to help me?”  She adds a little lilt at the end, a promise that the help she needs might be more interesting than simply chopping meat for a stew, as she crosses to their desk.

 

“Too busy to,” Zelda shakes her head, “to even think of an appropriate metaphor.”

 

“Even if I need help with an s-e-x related issue?” Hilda prods.

 

Zelda’s pen stops.  It taps, once, twice, three times on the desk then is brought to rest against faded red lips (another sign that her sister is simply working too hard).

 

Zelda pats the spot beside her and Hilda folds herself into the her-shaped space in the cushion.

 

Zelda’s lips purse into a smile as she drapes an arm over the back of the chair.

 

“What is happening with your dear Doctor Incubus now?”

 

“It’s what _isn’t_ happening. The bracelet I made works.”

 

“Then—”

 

“It works _too_ well.”  

 

She hopes the vague motion she makes towards her own crotch conveys her meaning.

 

Zelda’s eyebrow quirks.

 

She feels a tad bit guilty about revealing something so intimate--even if it might ensure that sometime in the future she and Cee might be able to be _intimately_ intimate.

 

“I see.”  Her voice goes all lecturey.  “I did tell you that Damascus-steel chains were your best option.”  

 

Zelda has perked up already.  She has always loved a good “I told you so.”

 

“ _Chains_ just seemed so--”

 

Zelda holds up a hand before she has to come up with an appropriate sound.

 

“I’ve never even tied anyone up.”  And before Zelda can say that Methuselah would beg to differ, she admits, “My familiars handle that when the need arises. And not in this context. _I thought since you had so much experience in this area that it might be one of those sacred duty things._ ”

 

The last bit runs together, but Zelda is fluent in many languages, including embarrassed Hilda.

 

Zelda huffs dramatically.  She stands and tilts her neck until it cracks loud enough for Hilda to flinch.

 

But then she offers a hand and says, “Come.”

 

Hilda takes it and her mouth is forming a question when Zelda finishes, “Upstairs.”

 

That tingling is back again.

 

* * *

 

Zelda pauses on the landing.  

 

“ _Honestly_.  What would you do without me?”  

 

Part of her wants to say that until very recently she had thought she could do just fine without Zelda, as long as that time without was finite.  That part had never really been in question before, that they’d always come back to each other one day. It might be years, a decade even, or next Tuesday but it was as inevitable as death and taxes. (Maybe not the best examples as they have all been resurrected at least once and she isn’t sure they have paid taxes since the Carter administration.)

  
But this last time . . .

 

She smiles and shrugs her shoulders.

 

Zelda shakes her head and narrows her eyes.

 

“I really do spoil you, Hildie.”

 

To be continued


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zelda POV this time

When Hilda stops in front of their door, Zelda blocks her way and points down the hall.

 

* * *

“Go and make yourself  _ comfortable  _ in ‘your’ room while I gather what we need.” 

* * *

 

She pauses outside Hilda’s room and readies herself:  Chains flung over her shoulders. Mallet in one hand, iron rings cradled in her other elbow. 

 

Hilda’s face will be priceless. 

 

This is the best she has felt in weeks. 

 

* * *

 

 

Hilda freezes, decorative pillow in hand.

 

Zelda walks around the pile of frilly pillows already on the floor and drops the lot onto the bed. 

* * *

 

Hilda jumps every time the mallet connects with the ring, driving it into the headboard.

 

“All—all of this is necessary?”

 

This is one of those times when Hilda’s whole face seems to enunciate her words. 

 

Zelda makes a show of peering at the ceiling.

 

“I could affix him to the wall or ceiling, if you prefer.  But that’s a bit advanced, don’t you think? For a first time.”

 

Hilda blushes but bends herself at an odd angle to stare at the ceiling with only borderline horror on her face.

 

“Though you are a Spellman and if you insist--”

 

“The bed is good.  Carry on.”

* * *

 

Hilda’s making herself comfortable earlier had extended to removing her cardigan and shoes. 

 

Zelda isn’t sure why she had expected the dress to go too when she patted the bed and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

 

But there is her sister, legs straight, arms crossed over her chest, staring up at the ceiling, in her floral dress. 

 

She’s arranged herself so much like a corpse that Zelda almost laughs. 

 

She rattles the chains and Hilda sits up like a shot, eyes fixed on her.

 

She smirks. 

 

“As I thought.” 

 

She tosses the chains into a chair for later.  They would get to those this evening.  _ Eventually _ .  She won’t have her little sister bested by a sex demon in a polyester cape. 

 

“We’ll start with something less intimidating.” 

 

She gives Hilda a little nudge to her chest and she lies back again.

 

“Left wrist.” 

 

Hilda obeys and Zelda slides her sleeve up.  

 

She pulls a silk scarf from her pocket and wraps it around Hilda’s wrist.  She’s sure to let the fabric slip against her skin.

 

“That’s nice.”

 

“I thought you might approve.” 

 

She jerks the scarf into a tight knot.

 

“Zeld--”

 

“Do you want your tombstone to read, ‘Torn to pieces whilst trying to get her rocks off with an incubus?’”

 

“ _ No _ .”

 

“Don’t think I won’t do it.”

 

“It isn’t the  _ worst  _ epitaph you’ve ever suggested.” 

 

“Remember the birthday I gave you that lovely pillow with the embroidered list?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Not so bad, is it?”

 

She nods and Hilda’s gaze follows hers to see her arm stretched tight, the other end of the scarf bound around the metal ring.

 

* * *

 

“I feel like I’m about to be drawn and quartered.” 

 

“Not today.” 

 

Zelda stares at Hilda’s fuschia-covered legs.  Both of Hilda’s arms are secured, but she’s still wearing those wretched tights. 

 

She misses the days when Hilda wore stockings.  More precisely she misses the daily sight of Hilda fussing with the suspenders that held up those stockings.  It had been an invigorating way to start each morning. Right up there with cigarettes and espresso. 

 

She sits on the edge of the bed and sneaks her fingers beneath Hilda’s dress before her sister can complain beyond a bit of wiggling. 

 

She’s unusually careful this time to hook her fingers into the space between tights and knickers.

 

She yanks and Hilda kicks at her--despite the fact that she had raised her hips most cooperatively.

 

She pulls them free of Hilda’s toes and casts them aside.  

 

Her fingers circle one of Hilda’s ankles; she admires the bold red pedicure even if it doesn’t  match the pale peach of her fingernails. 

 

“Always against skin or you run the risk of their sliding free.” 

 

Hilda nods, filing away the advice.  

 

“Same with the wrists or whatever else you might be shackling.”

* * *

 

Zelda slips out of her own shoes and flexes her toes against the very plush rug Hilda had picked out for this room of her own—that she hadn’t used since the holidays. 

 

When she stretches, the tension in her back, that had ached all day, lessens.  

 

She turns her attention back to Hilda and vaguely acknowledges an ache starting somewhere else. 

 

“Now try to get free,” she orders. “But no magic.”

 

Hilda tugs at her arms.  She rolls from side to side as much as her constraints allow.

 

It really is a most disappointing performance.

 

“You aren’t trying.”

 

“ _ I am _ .”

 

“Perhaps you need more motivation.”

 

Hilda manages a fair bit more squirming this time.

 

“No tickling.” 

 

“I wasn’t planning to.”

 

Instead, she unfastens the hook and eye on the waistband of her skirt and watches Hilda watch her.

 

She slides the zipper down and Hilda swallows.

 

_ Good _ .  She hadn’t misjudged.

 

The skirt joins her shoes.

 

She climbs on the bed, puts one knee on either side of Hilda’s hips, but does not settle herself down.

 

Hilda’s back arches.  

 

Zelda smiles down at her.  

 

She just needed to be  _ properly  _ motivated.

 

* * *

 

She undoes each of the eight buttons down her blouse in turn.

 

Hilda tests the limits of her bonds on the third.

 

“Most inflaming, isn’t it?”

 

She shrugs the blouse off.

 

“Not being able to touch.”

 

She busies herself touching what Hilda can’t. 

 

First palms teasing over her breasts--then fingers spanning her bare ribs.

 

“When you want to so badly.”

 

Hilda’s gaze is heavy lidded but focused when her thumbs reach her inner thighs and come dangerously close to the black silk covering her sex.

 

She rocks her hips forward, lets herself fall just a fraction closer to Hilda.

 

Hilda rises as far as she can, makes a strangled sound when they connect.

 

Zelda follows her back down.

 

She leans forward and puts a hand to either side of Hilda’s head, grins at her sister’s frustrated grimace, then grinds down against her.  

 

This really was a splendid idea.  

 

Sometimes Hilda surprises her.

 

She moves off her sister, off the bed. 

 

“See how well those bonds held?”

 

“That’s it?”  Hilda’s question is far louder than necessary.  Her body has bowed as if to follow her.

 

Sometimes she surprises Hilda.

 

“That was merely the demonstration, dear sister.”

 

She sets to work unfastening Hilda’s wrists.

 

“Now it’s your turn to practice.”

 

Hilda helps untie her own ankles.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I have done this many times.”

 

“But not since--”

 

Not since she was a prisoner in her own body.

 

If her hands were free, she’d be tempted to caress Hilda’s cheek, but they aren’t.  Her sister is an apt pupil and the chains on her wrists are not going to allow for such sentimentality.  

 

“I suppose if I’m going to try it again with anyone, it should be you.” 

 

Hilda smiles and it may just be the sun coming out from behind a cloud but she could swear the room gets brighter.

 

“I can easily overtake  _ you _ if need be.”

 

Hilda’s eyes narrow at the challenge. 

 

* * *

 

“Still okay?”

 

“Stop asking.”

* * *

 

She couldn’t name an inch of exposed skin that Hilda hasn’t swept her fingers over.  

 

She allows herself the luxury to writhe against her constraints as her sister rediscovers and tastes long-favorite spots.

 

* * *

 

She wants to hold Hilda’s golden head still, to keep her lips at that spot on her ribs that drives her mad, but her arms won’t move.

 

Her arms wouldn’t move then either.  Wouldn’t push him away that first night after he had cursed her in some gaudy Italian hotel room when her body was anything but ready.  Her mouth wouldn’t move to tell him that she hadn’t hurt this way since the night of her dark baptism. 

 

She shakes her head.  

 

This is Hilda, not him.  The two couldn’t be farther apart.

 

They are in their house, albeit the wrong room, surrounded by everything familiar.

 

And her Hilda is an expert on foreplay, dealing almost exclusively in it the way she does.

 

She wants this.  

 

Forget that place on her ribs; she wants Hilda chasing away any traces of him that haunt her.  

 

She wants to feel Hilda’s lips grin against her when she realizes how wet she has made her. How that remains a surprise after all these years, she will never know.

 

She is seconds away from demanding that Hilda damn well put her mouth where it should be when the chains binding her unclick and fall away.

 

“Why did you do that?” she snaps.

 

Hilda leans back on her heels. 

 

“I prefer you unfettered.” 

 

Hilda squeals deliciously when she all but tackles her. 

 

She mouths “thank you” before putting her lips to better use.

 

* * *

 

Hilda through soaked cotton.  Lavender and endearingly sensible. 

 

They are best at this  _ this  _ way:  still half clothed, laughter and desperation entwined. 

 

* * *

 

Hilda’s hands in her hair are not to hold her there until she is finished with her.  

 

She knows her sister’s fingers tangle in her hair to keep her own self grounded.

* * *

 

Hilda’s fingers flatten down the rumpled fabric at her waist and Zelda can see her again.  

 

She hasn’t moved from the pillow of Hilda’s thigh.

 

Hilda smiles. It spreads to a grin and then a laugh punctuated by a snort.

 

Zelda feels it threatening to creep to her own lips.

 

“And just what do you find so amusing, sister?”

 

“Here I thought I was going to be dealing with an incubus, not a succubus.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hilda POV. It's gonna alternate between chapters.

“I have to leave so you can have sex?”

 

The forkful of roast pauses between Sabrina’s plate and her mouth as she laughs.

 

 “What _kind_ of sex are you planning to have?”  

 

“Sabri--”

 

“No.”  

 

Sabrina’s brown eyes are about as wide as she has ever seen them

 

“I heard it as soon as I said it.  I’m sure Ros won’t mind if I stay over.”

 

Her niece studies the fork carefully before abandoning it on her plate.

 

“I’ll go give her a call and grab a few things.”

 

“That is kind of you, dear,” Zelda calls after her.

 

Hilda hasn’t been quite this embarrassed since she and Zelda gave Sabrina _the_ talk years ago. (Maybe when she was called in by Sabrina’s teacher the very next day . . .)

 

Head in her hands, fingers threaded through her hair, she has a good moan.

 

“Think the Cain pit will work if I die of embarrassment?”

 

“No.”

 

* * *

 

“Hilda.”

 

She finally looks up, looks over to see an oddly cheerful Zelda.

 

“What?”

 

“I am so pleased you have begun this little odyssey of sexual discovery.”

 

“Get stuffed, Zelds.”

 

* * *

 

Hilda remembers every time Sabrina packed “her” suitcase--really an old hard-shelled toiletries bag of Zelda’s left over from the 70s but it had been Sabrina-sized--and stayed over at Susie or Ros’ house.

 

She would have dropped her off then.  Hugged her and kissed her goodbye. Whispered that if she needed, all she had to do was call and one of them would come and pick her up, no matter what time of night it was.

 

Sabrina hugs her, kisses her cheek--but steps back and grins in a decidedly Zelda fashion.

 

“Do I say good luck?  Or is this more of a break a leg situation?”

 

“If she doesn’t bind those chains tightly enough, it very well might be the latter.”  

 

_Speaking of_.  Zelda is very amused by her own joke.

 

Sabrina simply echoes, _“Chains_?”

 

“The incubus thing, love.”

 

She tries to say it as delicately as possible.

 

“Okay.  I’ll be home tomorrow after school and definitely no sooner.”

 

* * *

 

She watches Zelda check the chains on the bed and marvels at what strange turns their lives have taken lately.

 

Zelda seems satisfied.

 

“I shall be just a shout away.”

 

“You’re going to stay?”

 

“In the house?  Certainly,” Zelda says.  “What would have been the purpose in my suggesting you do it here if you were still going to be left all on your own?”

 

“But you’ll be able to hear.”

 

“Are you forgetting that _I_ know what you sound like during sex?”

 

“That makes it _worse_.”  The last syllable hisses.  “You’ll _judge_. I’m nervous enough already without—”

 

“My only interest will be in screams of terror.”

 

“ _That_ makes me feel so much better.”

 

Her fingers have a death-grip on the too-long sleeves of her cardigan.

 

Zelda takes pity on her.

 

“You’ll be fine. _Better than fine_. And I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”

 

The mattress dips as Zelda sits beside her.

 

“Sister, I am almost jealous. _An incubus_.”  Zelda bumps their shoulders together.  “Granted he looks like your vampire friend but once the demon comes out.”

 

She trails off into a throaty hum.

 

Hilda tries not to take offense.  She and Zelda have never once been interested in the same person.  For the best, certainly.  She has no doubt who would come out the winner there.

 

So she nods and smiles as Zelda pats her knee and stands again.

 

“Of course, I will want to hear all the details tomorrow.”

 

“I don’t think—”

 

“I tell you about my more interesting encounters.”

 

“And how I enjoy that.”

 

Zelda’s eyes narrow at her.  

 

“Really, you are an absolute hypocrite, Hilda.”

 

Two well-manicured fists find her hips.

 

“You read those novels filled with thrusts and seed spilling in every direction. And then pretend to be scandalized—”

 

“Those aren’t about _you_!”

 

Zelda stares at her and she closes her eyes.

 

To wait for the inevitable teasing to start.

 

The mattress dips again.

 

“Ugh.  Just leave me be.”

 

She hazards a glance at her sister and finds her preening just as she thought she would.

 

“A tinge of jealousy suits you, sister, and if I’m honest, I’m a little envious of your incubus as well.”  

 

Zelda’s index finger easily guides her chin until all she would have to do is lean forward the tiniest bit and--

 

“Getting to experience you for the first time.”  

 

Zelda’s mouth brushes her cheek instead, makes steadier contact with her earlobe.

 

“How well I remember. What a lucky demon he is.”

 

* * *

 

She remembers too.

 

But it was just a pep talk.

 

Zelda doesn’t mean anything by it.

 

* * *

 

The doorbell chimes and Zelda raises an eyebrow.

 

“I’ll be in the office.”

 

“ _Wait_.”

 

She follows Zelda in a panic.

 

“What if I’m just not good at it?  What if unconsciously I’ve waited all this time because I _knew_ I would be bad—”

 

“Sister--”

 

“What if after all this, he’s disappointed?   _Disappointed and chained up-_ -”

 

Zelda grabs her elbows.

 

“Get ahold of yourself, Hilda.”

 

She takes a deep breath as Zelda studies her.  

 

“In our very long lives, you have never disappointed me.  Not in _that_ way,” Zelda is quick to clarify.  “My standards are guaranteed to be far higher than his.”

 

Zelda’s hand at the small of her back guides her out of the office before she can respond.

 

“Undo another button.  I have work to do and you have an incubus to tame.”

 

The door closes and the doorbell chimes again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“And this is my room.”

 

She realizes, as she clings to her door, that she has given Cee a tour of the house as if he’s here for a slumber party.

 

But then he is here for one of a sort.

 

Once the door is closed behind her, the bed seems to loom large.  The bed with chains that no amount of satin or pillows with tassels had been able to disguise.

 

Cee is looking at it too.  His hands have gone into his pockets in that nervous way.

 

“That’s not intimidating.”

 

He laughs and seems about as awkward as she feels.

 

“Not really. Just a few loops round your wrists and ankles and--”

 

He’s watching her.  

 

How utterly ridiculous it sounds, but if the end result is what she hopes it will be . . .

 

“And we _can_ ,” she repeats, taking a step closer to him, and another.

 

“We can,” _he_ repeats.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t as awkward when they are kissing.

 

* * *

 

“I’m just going to _pop_ behind that screen and change and you can get undressed.”

 

She pauses, suddenly unsure.  

 

“Or should I do that?”

 

_What do they do in the books?_ Her mind has gone blank on the details.

 

“I’ll wait for you,” he suggests.

 

“Just one minute.”

 

* * *

 

Yesterday she had gone shopping.

 

It was the kind of shopping that left her blushing furiously and thinking perhaps it would be easier to just use a glamour, but she is happy with this purchase in particular.

 

She leans forward and adjusts her breasts in the satin cups.  

 

She considers herself in the mirror.

 

_Right_.  Girls up nice and high. Flowy below the bust to hide the tummy. Just high enough up her thigh to make her look a bit taller, if the light is right.

 

She practices a fetching pout then shakes her head.

 

She whispers a silencing spell around the room and steps out from behind the screen.

 

* * *

 

“Wow.”

 

She prefers Cee’s reaction to her reflection in the mirror.

 

“We should--” He flushes and looks towards the headboard, looks a bit helpless for a moment.

 

“In a bit.”

 

She likes that look on him.

 

“One of us is still overdressed.”

 

* * *

 

One more ankle.  

 

She expects to see herself pleasantly rumpled in the small mirror opposite the bed.  

 

She sees Zelda’s surprised face instead.

 

Only for a second, but it was there.

 

“Are you--”

 

“Sorry.”  She is halfway off the bed when she thinks to try to explain.  Well, to lie.

 

“Need the loo.  Nervous bladder.  Sorry.”

 

For once she will kill Zelda.

 

A not-unattractive growl follows her out of the room.

 

Zelda is waiting in the hall.  

 

_Does her sister have no shame?_

 

“What the bloody heaven are you doing in that mirror?  Are you spying on me?”

 

“You put up a silencing spell.”

 

“Yes.”  And there had admittedly been a lot of talk from her sister before about _not_ doing that.

 

“What if you needed help?  How exactly would I know if I couldn’t hear you?”

 

“If I take the silencing spell down, you’ll stay out of the mirrors?  I don’t need any more performance anxiety.”

 

Zelda sets her shoulders and tugs on her robe.  

 

It’s that black lace one.  She’s never thought it properly counted as a robe since you could see straight through it to the gown beneath.

 

She feels very underdressed for this meeting herself.

 

“Agreed,” Zelda finally says.  “I’ll find something to keep myself busy in our room.”

 

There’s something about the way Zelda says it.

 

“This is very nice.”  Her sister’s fingers toy with the fabric of her nightie.  “The blue is most flattering.”

 

Zelda’s fingers are gone and already turning the knob when she stops her.

 

“Zelda.”  She _shouldn’t_ ask.  She _should_ let it go.  “When you say you’ll keep busy--”

 

“I have a million and one things to do before classes start again tomorrow.”

 

“Academy.  Yes.” She gestures behind herself like she is heading off into the mines.  “I’ll just get back to it then.”

 

“But I meant exactly _what_ you thought.”

 

Zelda’s door--their door--is closed and she’s left standing alone in the hall.

 

Part of her wants to follow her sister the way she always has.

 

But she has left her date--her boyfriend, rather--in a literal bind just down the hall.

 

* * *

 

“Was that your sister I just heard?”

 

“No.  Old house.  Lots of spirits trapped in the walls. Where were we?”

 

* * *

 

“See you later at the shop?”

 

“Try to keep me away.”

 

She kisses him goodbye at the front door and allows herself a little squeal of triumph once she is alone.

 

* * *

 

Zelda is in her usual spot at the table.

 

Unusually, there is a bucket of ice holding a bottle of champagne and a pitcher of what looks like freshly squeezed orange juice sitting in front of her.

 

“Should I pop the cork?” Zelda asks.  “It’s been ages since we had mimosas.”

 

“Not just yet.”

 

A strange look crosses Zelda’s face then she rolls her eyes.

 

“What is the matter now?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Zelda continues to stare at her.

 

“Just because we _can_ now doesn’t mean we _have to,_ _immediately_.”

 

The _Correio Braziliense_ replaces Zelda’s face.  Her voice says, “If I had any real opinion of him at all, I’d feel sorry for that man.”

 

“Well, don’t. We both had a very satisfying night.”

 

Zelda folds the corner of her newspaper.

 

“ _But_ ,” Zelda prompts.

 

_“But_ we agreed to warm up to the main event as it were.”

 

“A mutual agreement?”

 

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

“Well?”

 

“I told you. I don’t feel comfortable sharing the details. Though, I don’t think I mind a bit of beard stubble in the morning.   _What_?”

 

“ _Breakfast_ , Hilda.  Are you going to make breakfast?  I need to be leaving soon.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote it on the plane on my phone but maybe there aren't too many glaring errors.

“You want me to help you ‘practice’ penetrative sex” was not something Zelda expected to say tonight.

 

Though in all fairness, if she _did_ say it, it _would_ most likely be _to_ _Hilda_. Especially when her sister had begun the conversation with “Promise you won’t laugh?”

 

It was, however, what she had managed to piece together from her sister’s scattered monologue.

 

Zelda sidesteps the question with one of her own, “What have you got on under there?”

 

While Hilda is wearing the less offensive, more sedate, of her robes tonight, she has it bunched tight across her chest, gripped in her fingers.

 

Hilda slides from her careful perch on the side of her bed onto bare feet.

 

Also, highly suspicious.

 

Hilda’s feet have always been cold.  She remains the only baby Zelda has ever known who made zero attempts to pull her socks off.  (Hilda was peculiar from the very start.)

 

One of those bare feet shuffles over the other now.

 

“You promised not to laugh,” Hilda warns.

 

As Zelda says, “I did no such thing,” Hilda unclasps her robe.

 

* * *

 

Zelda simply stares.

 

There is always a remote possibility that Hilda has been cursed.

 

Her throat tightens for a moment.

 

The family _is_ in more danger than ever, even though _some_ of their enemies have fled.  

 

There _is_ always the possibility, however unlikely, that Hilda’s paramour has been keeping more than one secret, that there is something more sinister about him than his wardrobe and being possessed by an incubus.  

 

The flush darkening Hilda’s chest has worked its way to her neck now, driven the skin there splotchy.

 

“Say something, sister.   _Anything_.”  

 

She dismisses all thoughts of a curse.

 

The pleading for approval, _her_ approval, is all _her_ Hilda.

 

 _Still_.  

 

She is not as relieved as she should be.

 

“Is this some sort of strange, elaborate joke?” she asks carefully.

 

She’s on such uncertain footing in almost every aspect of her life.  Now is not the time for Hilda to go _silly_.  

 

Her sister has been so confident lately.  Despite what Hilda probably thinks, and not without reason, Zelda _has_ appreciated the change.

 

“ _That_ bad?” Hilda wails.  “I knew it was too much.”

 

“It’s positively pornographic.”

 

Her sister collapses back against her bed, hands over her face, anything but confident now.

 

Zelda closes the book that’s been laying open though forgotten on her lap, places it on her nightstand.

 

“I don’t know why I bought it.”

 

* * *

 

Hilda’s prone form is on a trajectory to slide off the bed.  

 

 _Again_.

 

“Sit up and quit carrying on.”

 

Hilda minds, though her breath has all the steadiness of a fit of oncoming hiccups.

 

Black does look nice next to Hilda’s darker skin.  She’s always told her so, or at least she thinks she has.

 

Especially where the lace is biting in a bit into the flesh, two neat valleys down two soft breasts that meet in a plunging v.

 

“It’s simply not for you,” she says, before her tongue can get other ideas. (Hilda’s cleavage tastes like lavender and honey at bedtime, a byproduct of homemade night cream.)

 

Before Hilda can become too offended, she quickly adds, “I’m not sure _what_ woman it _is_ for.”

 

She can’t imagine her sister shopping for this. Or the same store where Hilda had made her other _intimate_ purchase selling this.

 

“What you had on the other night—suited you.”

 

Hilda’s eyes meet hers. For once Hilda doesn’t seem to think she is teasing and simply takes the compliment.

 

Blushing shouldn’t be contagious.

 

But she had come for the first time in weeks, thinking of that cornflower blue nightie against her sister’s golden skin, about what was almost hidden by the sheerness of the fabric, that sister-sweet haven, not two feet from where she is currently standing.

 

And now Hilda is right in front of her, within arm’s reach, wearing _this_.

 

“This,” she scolds. “This has laces over your nipples.”

 

It’s tacky and cheap.

 

It’s _synthetic_.

 

Maybe Cerberus would like it as he wears something of the same quality every day.

 

 _Of course_ , he would like it.

 

Any _man_ would.

 

He _can’t_ see Hilda in this costume. She won’t allow it.

 

The second-hand embarrassment alone . . .

 

To her credit, Hilda hasn’t crossed her arms to cover herself, nor has she reached for the robe behind her.

 

Hilda rarely looks intimidating—and she doesn’t now—but she does look half ready to defend this choice simply to be contrary.

 

Zelda’s fingers twitch against her thigh.

 

Two steps forward, one tug at a black bow and her tongue could taste rose-colored honey.

 

There is a certain appeal, she will never admit out loud.

 

“You do not need things like this to be desirable.  Take it off.”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

She’d say her little sister’s sly grin reminds her of the cat who ate the canary but Hilda is a vegetarian (and peculiar to the very end).

 

“To my earlier question?”

 

Hilda curls one end of ribbon around her finger.

 

It would be like unwrapping a Yule present, really. Only everyone in the family knows better than to buy her a synthetic blend.

 

“We’ll get around to it.”

 

* * *

 

At least this whole ordeal answers a question Zelda had been waiting on Hilda to voluntarily answer for more than a fortnight.

 

* * *

 

“Is this suitable?”

 

A blonde head nods.

 

“I think it will do.”  Curls are still bobbing seconds later. “Quite nicely.”

 

* * *

 

“Where do you keep all these things hidden in here?”

 

“Where did _you_ have that little number tucked away?”

 

* * *

 

She pushes Hilda’s head away, feeling dizzy.

 

“That’s enough of that.”

 

“It doesn’t usually take that long when, well . . .”

 

Hilda wipes a bit of saliva from her lower lip.

 

Zelda would have preferred to lick it away herself.

 

“Have I been doing something wrong?”

 

Zelda feels the smirk before she can tame her mouth.

 

She’s _sure_ it doesn’t take long at all.

 

Not that she is fairing much better, if she were perfectly honest.

 

“If this were flesh.”  She trails her index finger down the length of silicone between her legs, slick and warm from her sister’s mouth, glances up to see Hilda’s wide eyes following her every move. “I would have come almost as soon as you took me in that lovely mouth of yours.”

 

She delights in the scrunch of Hilda’s nose, half embarrassment, half her own delight.

 

She delights even more in the way Hilda’s legs spread when she rolls them over.

 

* * *

 

“ _Zelda--_ ”

 

She sets to connecting the constellation of Hilda’s freckles, starts with her mouth on her throat, has made it to sweep her tongue over the one between her breasts, when Hilda’s fingers thread through her hair and tug.

 

“I don’t care how you do it.  I just need you to . . . _soon_.”

 

Whining and writhing yet unable to say what she wants, Zelda muses.  

 

She digs the point of her chin into Hilda’s breast bone.

 

“To _fuck_ ,” she clarifies. “One day, sister, you might even be able to say it—as well as do it.”

 

“Don’t tease.  Not now.”

 

She goes back to her route, finds the one near Hilda’s belly button that makes her sister’s stomach jerk inwards at the brief contact.

 

Any more and Hilda will start to giggle and fuss.

 

“Surely you’ve heard worse during your recent series of _satisfying_ encounters.”

 

“Cee may be possessed by an incubus but his vocabulary is still less colorful than yours.”

 

“ _Good_.”

 

She ends by nuzzling her face into the dark blonde curls at the juncture of Hilda’s thighs, pictures the now-hidden beauty mark that has resided over her sister’s pubic bone since they were still young enough to be bathed together.

 

* * *

 

She wonders briefly if Hilda has ever noticed that they taste exactly the same.

 

* * *

 

She circles her fingers around the shaft, coating it in the other thing she had pulled from her hiding place, but watches _Hilda_.

 

“You should be on top.”

 

It will be easier that way— _for Hilda_.

 

That she prefers her sister in this position is simply coincidental.

 

* * *

 

“Take only as much as you want . . . at your own pace.”

 

The quiver in her sister’s inner thighs as she positions herself. Hilda’s fingers spreading herself, lips stretching as others are pulled between teeth—Lucifer, she can’t watch, much less advise.

 

It’s just a lump of plastic, she reminds herself, but she closes her eyes and tosses her head back like it was her cock Hilda was working her way down.

 

The dizzy sensation from earlier is back.

 

She concentrates on breathing in and out.  On otherwise being still.

 

“Zelda?”

 

The confusion in her sister’s voice forces her eyes open. She finds blue eyes fixed on hers.

 

She realizes her hands have been gripping her sheets instead of Hilda as they should have been.

 

She rectifies that situation, but warns, “He won’t be this still.”

 

Hilda nods. Her hair falls over her face so she’s watching her through a curtain of blonde.

 

“Watching you makes me _want_ —” Zelda searches for the right word; she decides she had found it at the start.

 

Neat, blunt nails scratch over her ribs, challenge.

 

“ _Don’t_.”

 

* * *

 

“Not sure I love this--burns a bit.”

 

Her hands on Hilda’s hips immediately move to lift her away.

 

“ _No_.”  

 

It’s definitive.  

 

Her sister’s hands clutch hers. Hilda pulls them up to her breasts, holds them there.

 

“I want to. Just help me.”

 

Her fingers pinch and soothe in turn.

 

“Make it better, Zelds.”

 

Her cunt clenches against emptiness at the openness of Hilda’s expression.

 

She raises up, laps up a gasp from the roof of Hilda’s mouth as she shifts deeper.

 

* * *

 

“You’ll do nothing you don’t want.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Hilda doesn’t have to say, _he’s not like him_. Hilda has never been prone to her particular breed of hubris.

 

* * *

 

Zelda looks between them, to where they are joined, then back into Hilda’s eyes.

 

Her forehead falls against her sister’s as it does so often.

 

“Touch yourself.”

 

Hilda’s hand falls to herself, fingers start to stroke, even as she says, “I can’t later, not—”

 

 _In front of him_ , Zelda thinks.

 

She is absolutely certain that eventually Hilda will be able to, however. She’s surprised to be proud of that fact rather than jealous.

 

But for now, she all but collapses back against the sheets, uses her best elder-sister voice: “None of that.  He should get on his knees and thank his false god for the privilege of seeing you like _this_.”

 

Her fingers digging into soft hips, she draws her knees up, plants her feet against the bed.

 

She moves.

 

“ _Wanton_.”

 

One hand grasps at a pillow of breast, marvels again at its weight, at the contrast of hardened nipple against her palm.

 

“ _Glorious_.”

 

Her fingers abandon breast for lips.

 

She gasps in time as Hilda does around her fingers.

 

* * *

 

Hilda’s chest quakes against hers with inevitable laughter, moves more as she tries to catch her breath at the same time.

 

Her hands wander too far from their soothing strokes on Hilda’s lower back.  Her fingers clutch into perfectly rounded flesh.

 

Such softness has always made her fingers greedy.

 

* * *

 

It will happen faster this time.

 

She rocks Hilda forward, hears a whimper--again, harder than before--keeps it up until she feels knees pinching around her hips.

 

“My sweet Hildie.”

 

Hilda’s mouth opens against her chest.  

 

“Please come for me again.”

 

She feels Hilda’s teeth fight to find purchase.

 

* * *

 

Her hips roll up. Hilda’s bear down.

 

One thing has solidified in her mind.  They are better together.

 

* * *

 

“Oww, oww, oww.”

 

The faint, wet sound is unmistakable.

 

No one does this gracefully. Least of all Hilda it seems.

 

“ _Careful_.”  

 

She grabs Hilda’s arm before she can tumble off the bed.

 

* * *

 

Hilda has always been prone to fidgeting.  She thinks nothing of it as Hilda toys with her fingers as if they were the sleeve of a cardigan or the trim on a pillow. The familiarity of the habit is comforting. 

 

It’s only when Hilda positions them next to the shaft, when she quirks an eyebrow, considering them thoughtfully, that Zelda finds it strange.

 

“What are you—”

 

And then she knows.

 

How tonight—what should have been a perfectly regular night—had slipped into absurdity so quickly, she does _not_ know.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” she pulls her fingers free of Hilda’s. “It _is_  larger than my fingers.”

 

She doesn’t need to ask the question that normally would have followed such an exchange. She’d seen for herself the other night when she peeked through the mirror.

 

She unhooks the harness and drops it to the floor.

 

It lands with an unexpectedly loud thud.

 

She can’t stop the sharp peel of laughter that escapes any more than Hilda can stop her snort.

 

She rolls until her face is tucked into Hilda’s neck, smiles and kisses warm skin.

 

Her hand that slips between Hilda’s thighs finds her messy and sticky--adjectives Zelda only appreciates in this context.

 

When Hilda audibly inhales, Zelda lifts her head and studies her sister closely.  She pulls her hand away and asks, “Are you sore?”

 

Hilda seems to take a quiet inventory before answering, “Not really, no.”

 

“Good.” She kisses her, longer and slower than she had intended.  “Then we can finally go to sleep.”

 

She turns over to her side, reaches to pull the cord and turn the lamp off. 

 

Just as she settles down, she feels Hilda’s hand on her shoulder, hears Hilda’s voice in the dark.

 

“Is there something wrong?  Something we should talk about?”

 

She can’t imagine what Hilda is referring to. She’s sleepy and content in a way she hasn’t been in quite some time.  

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Hilda’s tone has gone cheery too quickly.  She obviously wants to talk about _something_. 

 

“Forget I said anything.”

 

 

* * *

 

She’s almost asleep when Hilda whispers at her ear: “I’d quite like to have a turn with that one day.”

 

Zelda doesn’t answer out loud.   

 

Obviously her answer will be a resounding _yes_.  The gooseflesh on her arms and the throbbing between her legs will entertain no other response.  

 

She’s already imagining the possibilities when Hilda clarifies needlessly, “With _you_.”

 

“I dared to presume.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have to give a shout out to the ads on my Instagram for Hilda's outfit. (Sorry. I didn't save the link.) I don't know what I have done that in the same scroll I have ads for cheesy lingerie and a product called Ball Wash--that is exactly what it sounds like. Talk about missing their target audience . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected shift in tone and style ahead, but the content is still Soft, with a capital S to wrap this fic up.

She always wakes before Zelda.

 

This morning is no exception.

 

Always slips away on mornings like this.

 

There’s clothes to be found, a bath to be had, and breakfast to start.  A sister mask to pull firmly back into place.

  

* * *

 

 

This morning will be an exception.  

 

* * *

 

  

Zelda from a distance is porcelain, fine and fragile.

 

_A figure the size of her thumb, spinning mindlessly, trapped in a looping, tinny melody._

 

Or marble, strong enough to weather centuries without trace.

 

Neither are true.

 

Zelda up close is tiny lines that have formed at the corners of her eyes, at her mouth—worry and laughter having an almost equal hand in their etching.

 

Zelda is copper hair, careless against her pillow.

 

Zelda is the blue of veins through pale skin, flesh after all, and blood just like her own.  

 

* * *

 

 

Her sister’s face is relaxed—more than she thought she would see it again a month or even weeks ago.

 

Hilda mouths a thank you up to the little spider keeping such careful watch over her sister’s dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s typically a pretense, something that could be used as an excuse should the need later arise.

 

This morning there is nothing but the need to kiss her sister awake.

 

* * *

 

 

Zelda’s lips curl into a sleepy smile when Hilda eventually moves away.  Green eyes squint into the gray light, blink and threaten to close again.

 

She runs her fingers up and down Zelda’s bare arm until she shivers and roots closer beneath the sheets.

 

“I want to touch you.”

 

Another smile and something almost like a laugh before a voice still morning-rough says, “Be my guest.”

 

“Zelds.”  Her fingers still at Zelda’s elbow.  “Do you  _want_  me to touch you?”  

 

While she has no doubt that her sister has enjoyed their recent closeness, those encounters have been uncharacteristically one sided when all is said and done.

 

It’s what she had meant to talk about last night.

 

Her sister’s eyes are alert and focused on hers now, but Zelda doesn’t make the snide comment Hilda half expects.

 

Hilda catches something shining in one corner with her thumb, rubs it over those beloved lines until it disappears, asks again, leaning closer, “Do _you_ want me to touch you?”

 

She watches Zelda swallow, can’t stop the impulse to kiss her throat in its wake regardless of her answer.

 

“ _I need you to_.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s nothing to be learned or taught.

 

She knows Zelda’s body better than she knows her own.

 

  
“I won’t break.”

 

  
Zelda’s fingers circle her wrist between them.

  

“But you could.”  She risks Zelda’s wrath and moves until she’s staring down at her. “If you needed to. That would be alright, you know?”

 

“I will tell you about it—I think I need to.” Zelda’s hand on her cheek is warm.  “But not just now.”

 

Zelda shifts beneath her. 

 

Zelda has been cradling her in one way or another her entire life.

 

“This morning I was kissed awake and you made an offer I am most interested in.  This is my morning.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Is your mind with your other paramour tonight?”

 

Hilda glances at her sister and realizes she’s been staring at the same page of her novel for who knows how long and Zelda’s glass is half as full as it was the last time she noticed.

 

She closes the book, smiles down at it instead of meeting Zelda’s gaze.

 

“Which of you am I cheating on?”

 

Zelda exhales, typically the signal of a lecture to come.

 

“Monogamy is a mortal construct.”

 

Zelda’s face softens.

 

“Is this truly bothering you?”

 

She trails her fingers over the trim on the pillow in her lap, considers. 

 

“I feel guilty that I don’t feel _more_ guilty.”

 

“You will perhaps call me conceited.”

 

“ _Never_.”

 

Zelda ignores her and continues:  “But _he_ is still mortal, even if possessed, and thus temporary. _I_ am not.”

 

* * *

 

“Just one caveat. I believe one marriage between the two of us is quite enough, don’t you?”

 

“You’d make a horrible matron of dishonor.”

 


End file.
